Olivier.
But not the cold strategist from the throne earlier, not the serpent Gabriel had learned to cut around in war councils. This was the Olivier Gabriel remembered from before the betrayals and the blood, a figure draped in soft midnight blue, the cut of his coat elegant and perfectly fitted, his blonde hair swept back just enough to reveal the smooth line of his face. His smile was easy, warm even, as if Gabriel had just stepped into a private memory rather than a cage.
"Gabriel," Olivier said, his voice rich, melodic, touched with the faintest echo of laughter. He stepped forward, hands open, as if welcoming an old friend. "It's been far too long."
Gabriel stopped just inside the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The shard's air felt heavier now, saturated with the careful perfume of nostalgia and longing.
So this is the game, Gabriel thought, his expression carefully neutral.
